


I Don't Think We've Met

by summerstorm



Category: Community
Genre: Drunkenness, Episode Related, F/F, Porn Battle, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-25
Updated: 2010-07-25
Packaged: 2017-10-10 19:22:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/103351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerstorm/pseuds/summerstorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Britta walks into a bar</i> is probably a bad thought to have when you're walking into a bar, Britta realizes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Don't Think We've Met

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt "Britta/Slater, catfight" at the Porn Battle X, except there are no catfights in it. Call it loosely based on the prompt.

_Britta walks into a bar_ is probably a bad thought to have when you're walking into a bar, Britta realizes, like you're setting yourself up for a joke, but it's pretty appropriate. Her last night in town before summer break, and she's spending it drinking alone at a dive bar. To be fair, it's not like a dingy dive bar or anything, and the ratio of decent live music to random idiots with too much time in their hands is as imbalanced towards the good as she's ever seen. Plus, she likes dive bars. They're homey.

She doesn't know what the punchline would be, if this were actually a joke. She's not a jokes person. She's bad at them, she can accept that. She's not a crazy narcissist who can't admit her own flaws, and she's reevaluating her ability to be honest with herself since she started the community-college Britta equivalent of a catfight over a boy. Admitting she's bad at something is a good first step. Second step. Whatever. So, that's where reevaluation comes in. Self-analysis, and eradicating your own weaknesses, and admitting you can't make jokes, and cheap beer. All of those are good things.

Or maybe, she thinks, turning on her regular stool at the bar to survey her surroundings, maybe the punchline has something to do with glancing at the pool table and staring, out of the blue, into the closest thing she has right now to a dignity mirror.

_Britta walks into a bar and finds Michelle Slater._ She snorts. Whatever, it's her life. She can find it funny if she wants to. Better to laugh than to cry, or make a spectacle of herself, or hide.

She reconsiders that last part of her assertion when Michelle Slater takes her purse from one of the guys she was playing pool with and makes her way over to the bar.

"Hi," Slater says, all still and businesslike, dragging a stool next to Britta.

Britta wonders if she's going through the same process she is, or if she should duck out before Slater uncovers her claws. She frowns. "Hi?"

"We should talk," Slater says, straightening her back and flashing some, Britta can admit, pretty magnificent cleavage, and flags down the barman.

*

Slater makes it through twenty minutes of going over every stupid thing Jeff's ever said to either of them or anyone in the study group or any friends of Slater's who've had the misfortune of meeting him before she downs the last of her — a number of drinks, and says, "Okay, actually, getting drunk and reminding myself there are people out there in the world who never had even half the dignity I have on a—"

"Really, ridiculously, majorly undignified week?" Britta says, raising her glass sympathetically.

"—really, ridiculously, majorly undignified week. That wasn't the reason I came over here." And then she gets sidetracked by procuring herself a refill.

They're both kind of — tipsy, already, and that's probably why Slater doesn't realize pausing at that particular moment means Britta's brain is currently supplying a million reasons why Slater could have wanted to engage her in conversation. _To be honest, I felt bad because you looked like you'd been stood up_. _Actually, I just wanted to throw this drink in your face_. _I really just always wanted a reason to get involved in a bar fight_. Or maybe _Did you see the rock on the hand I was hiding from you just now? I'm marrying Jeff next week. We couldn't wait. Suck on that_.

Okay, Britta knows that last one wouldn't actually happen. And Slater wouldn't announce it like that if it ever did. But the other three options are totally plausible, except for how the Transfer Dance thing was probably also a moment of weakness for Slater, so maybe she wouldn't do any of those things, and Britta shouldn't just take for granted that Slater's a horrible person based on their few, pretty skewed minutes of interaction. Do unto others and all that. It's not bad advice. For, you know, the Bible.

As for the dramatic refill break, it couldn't have been, like, planned. She can't possibly want Britta to have a heart attack that much. That's just internalized rival groupie hate talking. She can give Slater the benefit of the doubt.

The barman finally gets around to doing his job, and once there's a full glass in Slater's hand, she seems — a lot more dangerous, somehow.

"I actually wanted to apologize for what happened at the dance," Slater says, surprisingly, and Britta's not quick enough to keep the shock from showing on her face. Bad, bad reaction. Slater doesn't want to pour alcohol in her eyes. Relieved breath. That's better. "I just wasn't sure how to do it. 'Sorry I pounced on you over my ex' doesn't make for a great conversation starter."

Britta nods. "But you got there," she says, impressed. "Apology accepted. And — returned. Wholeheartedly. That was not a good day for me either, I can tell you that."

"Let's just — _forget_ it ever happened," says Slater. Her eyes are a little narrowed, gleamy, sort of apologetic and hopeful at the same time. It's a good look on her. It's a good sign for Britta. No catfights today. "Next round's on me."

*

"God, I have to _drive_," Britta groans. The guy on the stage is halfway through a six-song set. She's halfway through — a lot, a lot of refills. And there were a couple of shots at one point. She's a little hazy on the details.

It must be really pathetic, or she must look really drunk, because Slater takes a look at her, tilts her head thoughtfully, and says, "You know, I have a pretty nice couch. You're welcome to crash on it."

They've had a nice night, and it would clearly be the responsible thing to do, but it still catches Britta by surprise. It's _Slater_. They're supposed to — scratch that, they're not supposed to hate each other. What was that stupid motto about choosing friends — potential ones, whatever — over people you want to fuck? "Really?"

"Yeah," says Slater — Michelle. If Britta's sleeping on her couch tonight, she should at least use her first name. "Actually, you're encouraged to do that. I'd feel guilty if I let you go and you totaled your car or drove it into someone's little family business or — got arrested for driving under the influence or something." She polishes off her glass and leaves it on the bar before looking at her and shrugging. "Just look at it as damage control."

Britta nods. "Right," she says, raising her own glass, which she realizes as it catches the light is empty, "hoes before bros." She thinks it over for a second. "Wait, I'm not a ho."

"And I am?" Slater says, eyebrows raising, but she doesn't — of course she's not, that's not even worth addressing.

"Bros before — " Britta tries, narrowing her eyes. Then, she shrugs and declares, "This isn't working."

Sl— _Michelle_ presses her lips together, not quite hiding every hint of a smile. She says, "It really isn't."

"It _really_ is not," Britta agrees, and breaks into giggles.

*

Michelle lives literally around the corner, which Britta finds both pragmatic and kind of boring, because what's even the point of going out if you stay within your comfort zone? Not that she has a lot of room to talk about predictability. Dive Bar Girl.

"That doesn't sound like a bad thing to be known as," Michelle comments.

"Has anyone ever told you you have really bad taste in, like... things?" says Britta, and slaps her mouth shut, crinkling her eyes apologetically.

"Me, in the mirror, basically every morning," Michelle says, laughing. She doesn't even sound offended, but that could just be the alcohol clouding Britta's judgment.

"Sorry," she says anyway. "I didn't mean that. You have decent taste in _some_ things."

"Yeah?" Michelle offers her shoulder for Britta to lean on while she unlocks the front door. It's a pretty warm night, but Britta kind of misses Michelle's arm around her waist. Not that she needs it — she's not that drunk. She can stand on her own two feet just fine. She may be slurring her words a little, you never know, but she's nowhere near the point of drunk dialing.

Plus Michelle confiscated her phone before they got out of the bar. It was really hot. Like in an authoritative way. She just took it and said, 'I'm carrying this for you. For your own safety. And mine,' and it was just kind of cool. Britta could never in a million years pull that off. She's a different kind of hot.

"Like what?" Michelle's saying as they walk into the building. Her arm is still cozy when it wraps around Britta again. Britta leans in.

"Like... costumes. Halloween. You looked awesome. I totally would have hit that." She nods. That was not something she planned to say, but it's absolutely true. Or it would have been in different circumstances. It counts.

Michelle laughs again, this dry, soft, breathy sound. "Oh, I forgot to tell you, the elevator's not working right now. And I live on the fifth floor." She shrugs apologetically, and Britta pouts at her a little.

"You're evil," she says, and makes a turn for the stairs.

"I make the most of all available resources," Michelle calls after her.

*

Climbing five flights of stairs while drunk is a pretty sobering process.

Or maybe Britta should lie about that, because she's pretty sure there was a point between the second and fourth floors she was holding hands with Michelle Slater. She's never kidded herself her lesbian experimentation phase ended in her early twenties — well, she left the experimentation part behind, anyway — but this is a professor, and it's a professor she shared — for given values of the word — a pretty traumatic episode of her life with just a few days ago.

Britta needs to stop wallowing. That was pretty much the whole point of getting drunk.

But, in all honesty — self-honesty, at least — she's clearheaded enough to add double digits by the time they reach the fourth floor, and, even though she'd like to blame the alcohol for what happens between there and Michelle's door, she knows it is all Britta.

Michelle's door is on this _awesome_ landing, with a large window facing the elevator and overlooking a tiny, adorable children's park which, according to Michelle, is hell to sleep through on weekends, and the window draws in this lovely, fresh breeze, and lights everything up when the building lights fizzle out. It makes Michelle look gorgeous. And her body's such a comforting presence next to Britta's, and her mouth is full and beautiful and right there and, well, yeah. Maybe actually kissing her has something to do with her beer-addled brain, but wanting to has nothing to do with impaired senses.

"I can't believe people were right about you being a lesbian," Michelle says, and Britta breaks away for a second to deny it, but Michelle just says, "You seem gay enough," and smashes their mouths together.

*

They don't make it past the hall on the first go. Michelle just pins Britta to a wall right after she kicks her door shut and says, "You know, I've always wanted to try something," and hauls Britta's legs up until Britta takes the hint and wraps them around her waist.

Britta's not that light and Michelle's not that strong, so they just make out against the wall for a while, which feel kind of immature but also really good, and it just gets Britta going to lean on Michelle's hips like that, to stretch her legs and feel Michelle's grip tighten on the back of her thighs.

After a while, Michelle tugs at Britta's lip with her teeth and then says against it, "Okay, my arms are dying," and they move to the nearest viable surface, which happens to be a big, bright, perfectly made bed two doors down.

Britta drops back on it without any concern for what she might fall on, and has no time to move around before Michelle's crawling over her, kissing her and using her limbs to keep Britta in place.

"I should be offended to know I make it into your people-I'd-sleep-with list," Britta says softly. "What with the bad taste issues and all."

"Maybe I just have a thing for people who think they're smarter than they really are," Michelle says. Britta's sure that's true, but it doesn't really apply to her.

"I don't think I'm that smart," she says.

"Shh," Michelle says, letting a short burst of laughter escape her throat, her warm breath tickling Britta's chin, "don't ruin the illusion," and shimmies down Britta's body.

*

"Do all your one-night stands extend to morning?" Britta says the next day, sniffing the coffee Michelle just gave her. It's hot. And strong. The mug has a pie chart on it. Britta doesn't want to stop smelling the coffe to find out what it is about. "And breakfast?"

"If they stay the night, yeah, they do," Michelle says. She's dressed, but she has no make-up on, which actually makes her look kind of younger, and her hair has this gleam to it in some places, like she grew impatient halfway through blow-drying it. "But you didn't really have a choice, so — okay, you're drinking the coffee, you need the coffee, but it's up to you to skip the pancakes."

"Ooh, pancakes," Britta coos, smiling over the mug.

"Are you still drunk?"

"No." She takes a wary sip of the coffee — it's still hot, but it doesn't burn. It feels good as it goes down. "I just like pancakes. How wasted was I last night?"

"Not enough to do anything regrettable or break any valuables," Michelle says, barely holding back an amused smirk.

"Good," Britta says. "Good." She blinks a few times, until her eyes agree to stay properly open. "Where's the bathroom?"

"I'll tell you if you promise you won't sneak out through the window," Michelle says. _Now_ she's smirking. "Not to knock your choice of escape routes, but if you try that window, you'll die. I don't want that kind of blood in my hands."

Oh, _god_, that story. Britta can't believe she told Michelle Slater that story. "Thanks for the warning."

"Any time," Michelle says, and walks out of the room. Those jeans she's wearing make her ass look pretty amazing; Britta can appreciate that. Thee are actually a lot of things about Michelle Slater she hadn't realized she could appreciate until last night.

Anyway, Britta doesn't try to sneak out the bathroom window.

There's probably a joke in that, but Britta's in no rush to make one.


End file.
